The show starts at sunrise. Flowers are sent. Stuffed animals are compared, through sidelong glances, for their sizable meaning (the bigger the bear, the bigger the love, unless it's microscopic and then it's cuteness means you must be loved immensely.) Singing balloons are delivered, sure to annoy everyone within earshot. Look at you. You are one out of a million other women receiving flowers on Valentine's Day. You are very special. I know I feel something special, stirring inside me, watching it happen over and over again. Something like a fork in my side because I'm done before it even starts.
It's tired. Unoriginal. A large percentage of the women around me who receive flowers on Valentine's Day do not receive them any other time during the year. Sending flowers when everyone else is sending flowers ensures you'll get lost within the flock. It's a ridiculous spectacle. Please keep the rest of us out of it. Stop trying to convince us how much you love one another because it makes me think you're convincing not only us, but yourselves.
Hitler could have sent a dozen roses too. It proves nothing.
Does this make me sound like a heartless bastard of a woman? Maybe. But I know a few things about romance and a lot about being in love. The one thing that never occurs to me is to include anyone else. When you invite others into your romance, it is no longer intended for the love of your life but for everyone watching. It reeks of ego.
So, this Valentine's Day, let's all remember that it's not the number of flowers, the size of the teddy bear, the song the balloon is singing that holds weight. It is what happens when no one is watching that is truly measured.
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